


Our State Cannot be Severed

by Theboys



Series: Dear God, It's Me, Dean [28]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alpha Sam, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alpha/Omega, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Play, Angry Dean, Angry Sam, Blood and Gore, Bottom Dean, Canon-Typical Violence, M/M, Omega Dean, Porn, Possessive Behavior, Possessive Sam, Protective Sam, Scared Dean, Scent Marking, Top Sam, Violent Dean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-05
Updated: 2015-08-05
Packaged: 2018-04-13 04:28:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,949
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4507803
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Theboys/pseuds/Theboys
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam’s grinning, eyes mostly black, thin ring of hazel, and Dean knows he can smell what Dean wants, exactly what he’s after, but he wants his brother to say it.</p><p>Wherein Sam is a possessive bastard, Dean gets to have sex, and something terrible occurs.</p><p>Dean POV.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Our State Cannot be Severed

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from Paradise Lost, by John Milton.
> 
> Violence, and turmoil are contained within.

Dean clenches blazing fingers around the backs of his upper thighs, stab wounds in soft flesh.

His legs are curved up and pressed as close to his chest as possible, and Sam has broader palms curved over his brother’s hands, helping him with the support. Sam’s fingers are gently tangled in the IV that’s hooked up to Dean’s neck, needle attached to the main blood vessel there, and he grimaces. The cloying smell of blood is washed away by Samsmell, but it still lurks, constantly.

Slices his hot tongue through slick and grazes incisors ever so gently over Dean’s spasming hole. Dean curves one hand over his belly, scent of restless pups mingling with the smell of Daddy’s arousal, and Dean’s anticipation, diamond-hard shine and chocolate.

Sam rises from between his legs, swollen lips and self-satisfied smirk.

“What do you want, baby?” Dean huffs angrily, struggles a little to breathe from arousal and the press of his knees to the swell of his stomach. Sam lifts the offending weight up, cradles his kneecaps with the kind of smile that Dean doesn’t want to examine too closely.

“Shut the hell up, Sam. You know what I want.” Grits it out, barely, searching for scraps of dignity to clothe himself in. How Sammy makes him into this whimpering, mewling mess evades him. He blushes, turning his head to the side so that he can’t see his brother looking at him anymore.

Sam growls, non-threatening, but pained, and angles Dean’s face back into his line of sight.

“Don’t hide from me.  I wanna see this. This is mine.”

Dean trembles, unable to hide his reaction from his brother. Sam curves his fingers around Dean’s chin, tilts his head up for a kiss. Tangles his tongue with Dean’s and sucks, taste of Dean’s slick invading his taste buds. Can feel his brother’s teeth retract, teasing knick as they do so.

“You like bein’ mine, Dean?” Says this teasingly, pressed so close that they’re breathing the same air. Sam tumbles forward, so that only his knees are left between Dean’s wide open legs, and his chest and head are level with his brother’s. Dean blinks up owlishly, face still flushed and mouth breathing in stuttered bursts.

“Wanna hear what I want?” Sam doesn’t wait for an answer, ducks down and takes Dean’s exposed bottom lip in his teeth and tugs, and Dean arches off of the bed, moan of pleasure, laced in sin. Sam growl-laughs and it sends shivers down Dean’s spine, makes him ache to present, press his ass into Sam’s face and submit.

Sam’s grinning, eyes mostly black, thin ring of hazel, and Dean knows he can smell what Dean wants, exactly what he’s after, but he wants his brother to say it. Sam looks down, let’s his gaze sweep over Dean’s naked body, and Dean’s gnawing at his lip again, cause Sammy is still in his jeans, zipper opening for Alpha-dick to breathe, and it’s jutting out obscenely, twitching in the breeze, dusky pink and getting darker.

He cups Dean’s pregnancy with both hands, spanning the bump entirely, end to end.

“unh” Dean grunts out, intelligently, not liking how his dick attempts to make a getaway at how fucking sexy that feels. “Fucking love this, don’t you, baby?” Sam isn’t looking at him, he’s staring at where his children are housed, and Dean’s floored by scent of protection and possession he can scent, Sam’s pine and wood smell and metal tang.

Medieval fortress, necessary, yet functional. Dean squirms and then gasps as Sam presses his thumb just inside Dean’s hole, let’s it sit there, big and fat and hot, pumps it in and out shallowly. He maintains his grip on Dean’s swell with the other hand, tight grin on his features.

“I wanna rub off on you. Fucking come all over your stomach, paint you all in my scent.” Sam’s gaze is hard, unforgiving, and Dean knows that he’s staking his claim, Alpha-born, here, and Dean is wilting.

“Make you cry cause it’s so good.”

Sam slips his body down, fingers leaving Dean’s pregnancy, and Dean can’t help the mewl of loss. Sam’s face softens and hardens in unison, and he props his brother’s legs back up with one forearm. “I’ll give you what you want, baby. Don’t worry.”

Dean’s scrambling, when he feels the head of Sam’s dick press against the wrinkled furl, but Sam is teasing, and Dean’s not having it. He’s awake for the first time in months, and he wants to get _fucked._

“Know what I want, Sam?” Dean says, attempting to berate, but his voice is high and breathy like he’s on drugs.

Supposes that’s accurate.

“For you to fuck the shit outta me.” Sam’s hands are tightening around Dean’s body, and now he’s smiling, because he knows this arena. Knows just how to rile little Sammy up, make him too bothered to care.

Dean doesn’t particularly care for his looks, uses them to his advantage when necessary, but in general, they’re an impediment.

People remember what he looks like. They remember the omega with the great green eyes, thick pink lips, they always point him out. They remember Sammy as big. Alpha. Imposing.

But they never forget Dean’s face. That’s not something he wants, in his line of business.

But, he’s taught himself how to use it, out of necessity. Never used it on Sam, never had a reason to, until now. “I promise,” he says, eyes wide and guileless, consciously tugs his lip into his mouth and then releases it, “once you’re inside me I won’t move offa that fat dick, _Alpha_.”

Dean still cries out when Sam full on howls and penetrates him in the same breath, shoving him up the bed so violently that Sam immediately has to tangle his fingers around the back of Dean’s head to avoid concussing him against the headboard with the force of his thrusts.

Dean slices fingernails through the skin on Sam’s forearms, but his brother doesn’t notice, growls filth above him as he pummels Dean, steals every single breath Dean has in his body, cause it belongs to Sam, just the same.

“Fucking tease,” Sam’s muttering, wild and unchecked, and Dean’s floored to realize he loves it. “Looking at people with those fucking eyes, wondering why I gotta fight everyone for you.” Sam leans down suddenly, rakes his teeth over his claim, just above the IV line, under his ear, and Dean whimpers, tangles his fingers in Sam’s long hair.

He presses his lips to Dean’s ear, one hand occupied, snaking down to where he and Dean are connected, index and thumb tracing at his brother’s rim, stretched out and shivering under the feather-light caress.

“With you looking how you look, you got any idea why I wanna burn the whole world down?”

Dean’s keening, spasming under his brother and Sam quickly leans up, makes sure the IV isn’t close to being dislodged, cause Dean’s coming, cum splattering the underside of his stomach, and yellow bed-covers underneath them.

Sam watches him with hooded eyes, a little awe floating through him. “Didn’t even touch you. Dean, wasn’t even _fucking_ you--” and Dean wants to be ashamed, at least a little, but his dick is still making weak jerks and he’s still making tiny, punched out whimpers against the press of Sam’s body, which is suddenly closer as he starts fucking his omega in earnest, damn near rutting.

Dean can feel the knot against his ass, and he wants it, wants to be plugged up with Sam’s cum and bred, but his brother must have other ideas, cause he jerks out at the last instant and raises himself up on rickety knees, towering over Dean. Dean knows his eyes are big, mouth agape, and he’s flushed from head to toe.

Sam’s coming all over his belly, blazing white streaks, mosaic of Sam, littering his chin to the bottom of his stomach, territory mark. Sam’s too unfettered by his claim to flop down gracelessly beside Dean, instead he’s smearing it into Dean’s skin, humming softly.

He presses dirty fingers to Dean’s lips and smears it there, groans audibly when Dean licks them clean, picture of innocence, still too fucked out to realize what it is he just did.

“I love you, Dean. But next time you want something, just ask me, alright?” Dean’s blushing, Sammy was royally pissed when he had found Dean up and at ‘em, attempting to shuffle his way downstairs, flummoxed at the top step as to how to drag the IV stand with him. He’s in no state to carry the damn thing.

Sure, Sam carried him right back to bed and fucked the shit out of him, but Sam’s livid. And under that anger is real fear, and it’s got Dean ducking his head in annoyance and shame. “Fine. But I’ve been on this thing for two weeks already. M’not gonna lay here all day. Fucking sucks.”

Sam runs a hand over his lower lip and smiles indulgently. “Fair enough. I’ll carry you down to the couch, and set you up there. You can watch John Wayne all day.” Dean snorts, but perks up despite that, and is momentarily irritated at the fact that this is what his life has come to.

He fucking misses the goddamn hunt.

-

Dean wakes up inelegantly, with a snort, and very nearly tumbles off of the side of the couch. He leans over, hand pressed to his stomach, and sees that there is a small mountain of pillows on the exposed side, probably for that very purpose.

Dean is filled with an inexplicable rush of love for Sam, and he sits back against the cushions quickly, before the feeling can overtake him. He will never regret the loss of these damn hormones.

Dean frowns, suddenly, the back of his neck prickling. Dean’s a light sleeper. Had to be, fell asleep watching over Sam in the bed next to him for years, wasn’t allowed to be down for the count where his brother was concerned.

Remembers Sam’s small sleep noises, ten years old, all trust and dependency, telephone line directly wired to Dean, and he’s never forgotten that responsibility. The weight of that kind of love.

Dean rolls over to find his phone on the coffee table, next to some bottles of water, and (praise God) an unopened bag of cherries, stem and all.

Text from Sammy. He’s gone out, be back soon, and what does Dean want for dinner?

Dean’s perturbed, knows Sammy is getting himself into some shit, but he’s unaware of what it is, what his brother has gotten up to while he’s been incapacitated, and he feels a red flush of shame at his inability to protect Sam, even from himself.

“Son of a bitch,” he murmurs, feeling truly helpless for the first time since this all began. Dean’s ears perk up, he hears a sound, fucking small noise, and it’s coming from outside. Dean has a brief moment of confusion, and then his spine cracks as he sits up straight, dispelling the dizziness in his head.

He can’t afford to be weak right now. He instinctively digs his hand under his pillow, grim satisfaction that Sam didn’t forget his Bowie knife, and his fingers curl around the handle like clockwork. He’s assaulted by the rush of adrenaline in his system, and it’s needed, because his kids are waking up, and he’s scenting anger with a tendril of fear, burning madness.

He glances at the IV stand, huffing out a palpitant breath. The fuck is he supposed to do with the thing? He cradles his stomach apologetically as he reaches up to his neck and jerks the needle out in one smooth line, small buzz of pain tingling in his skin, familiar face.

He figures they’ll be safer if he can keep them alive. They’ve been on the drip for a few weeks now, and he’s got to depend on that. He tightens one hand around the pups and the other around the blade, swings it in a wide arc in the air, loosens the stiff joints in his neck and shoulders.

He hears the unmistakable sound of glass shattering, and he can’t help the smile that flows across his face.

He’s gonna spill some blood today.

“Don’t be scared,” he whispers, mostly to Lilac, who usually exudes the most anxiety where Dean is concerned. It’s more worry for him than fear for the situation, and Dean likes that. Likes the difference in scent, sweltering heat-garbage versus lemon-honey. Maple never seems anything but excited, fireworks and lava, and it always pushes Dean on, feeds his own fire.

He stalks forward, best he can, unused to the cumbersome weight hovering around his middle. He doesn’t want to do this, despite the low throb of anticipation in his veins. Has no desire to put the pups in harm’s way. Otherwise, he would be there already, guns blazing.

But Bobby’s been giving them more than enough time alone, and Sam clearly thought it would be a good time to leave Dean unprotected. He scoffs. Sam won’t be pleased about the bloody mess Dean’s gonna make him clean up.

He hears voices now, shuts off his own internal monologue so he can listen in, slow circles around his stomach in comfort. Alphas, two of them. Smell like desperation and intent, sun-sweat and steel, and Dean’s pulse trips up.

“Fucking bitch to get in here.” There’s a snort and then the first guy speaks again. “Shut up man, let’s just get him and leave. He won’t seal it until we bring him the guy.” Second guy speaks, voice much higher than he would have thought possible for a man. “What’s he look like?”

Bitch-guy answers. “Pregnant ‘mega. Can’t miss him.” Dean’s eyes narrow. Like what? He’s an easy target? Clearly, these two fuckheads don’t know what they’ve been set up against.” He shuffles forward quietly, peeks around the corner at the two men standing in the shambles that used to be Bobby’s kitchen. Window is cracked and glass has tinkled into the sink and on the floor. They’re about Dean’s height, Bitch-guy is taller, with dark hair, and Dolly Parton is blonde, fittingly. Dean’s slinging his Bowie in a practiced arc before he can think on it too much. Shines in the air for a fleeting second. Slices into the bigger target, catching the dark-haired man directly in the neck, blood rushing forth in rivulets through his mouth. He grabs wildly at the weapon that just killed him, before dropping heavily to his knees and sliding to the side, smacking against his partner’s calves. His blood runs onto Dolly’s shoes and the man’s incisors lengthen and he jumps back with a shout.

Dean’s given away his element of surprise, but hey, it’s only a card you can play once, regardless.

Dean steps into view, wants to keep this motherfucker in his sights.

“Can’t miss me.” He smiles, palms turned upwards and the Alpha is posturing, aware of the unprecedented threat that Dean presents. Dean’ll have to fight this one by hand, but he’s been sparring with Sam since the Alpha was born, and Sam’s a sight more imposing than this one.

Dean sidesteps the first blow, forces himself to ignore every protective instinct his omega possesses and waits until the Alpha is bearing down on his face, watches the man breeze past him in a flurry, fist connected with the drywall where his head had been. His blood is humming, and he can smell his children, low-key distress heightened with exhilaration.

Papa is winning.

The Alpha is turned around, less fury and more cunning, smooth baby-soft face crimson with rage, and Dean can almost see the Alpha in him, snapping with barely contained violence, off with his head.

Dean can’t fight, not hand to hand, needs to keep his personal space, bubble of protection for the pups. He’s not accustomed to combat in this way, it’s more like boxing, and he strikes quickly, direct kick to the Alpha’s kneecap and the man sinks down with a howl, and the sound is music to Dean’s ears. He’s on his uninjured knee, and Dean can tell his body is trembling toward the shift.

Dean’s mind is spinning and he’s starting to tire, body not equipped for the prolonged tension anymore. He needs to run, get out of the house before the man comes to fully. He’s turning, awkward and slow, and he realizes he’s misjudged his center of gravity greatly, he’s an alien in this body, at the mercy of its whims and ailments.

The Alpha’s hands tangle on his ankles and jerk roughly and Dean’s got no chance, flips himself as he goes down, so he can land heavily on his spine, grips his stomach tightly to absorb some of the shock of the fall. He’s scrambling backwards, away, the instant his back connects with tile, crab walk, ignoring the pain splintering through his body.

He’s not fast enough, doesn’t own enough momentum, and his body slaps against the front of the wooden cabinets that line up below Bobby’s sink.

The Alpha is crouched, and then beside him, lightning quick, and Dean is fucking livid that he took the bait. Dolly tilts his head to the side, sharp jerk that sends pain shuddering through Dean’s defenseless body, and he feels the familiar bite of a needle into the fleshy part of his neck, shark teeth and scarlet.

Wants to gouge this Alpha eyes out and present them to Sam.

Searches blindly for his kids, but he can’t feel them

_he can’t fucking find them_

And then, that’s all there is. 

**Author's Note:**

> I'm so sorry about this.


End file.
